Knife-Throwing
by Anonymous033
Summary: A sweet little story set back when Ziva is five years old, and she is learning to throw a knife for the first time. Cute and harmless; rated K plus only because I don't want any other five-year-olds running around with knives.


**Summary: Ziva learns to throw a knife for the first time. A sweet little family fic where Ziva is five years old and her family is different from what it is now.**

**Disclaimer: NCIS is not mine, but this story is.**

**Spoilers: None, unless you've never heard of Ziva**

**I've never thrown knives before, by the way, so it's all guesswork here :) but this story is very different from my usual angsty stuff, so I hope you enjoy it. Please read and review!**

**P.S. _Nesicha _is "princess" in Hebrew.**

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**Knife-Throwing**

Five-year-old Ziva straightened up slowly and frowned. She looked up at the man beside her. "I cannot do this, _abba_."

Eli smiled down at his daughter. "Yes you can, Ziva. Try again."

"But _abba_, why do I have to do it?" Ziva questioned crossly.

Eli gently stroked her soft curls. "You do not want to learn to throw knives like Ari? He is getting very good at it."

That seemed to bother Ziva; she frowned again. "I really hope not. I will never catch up to him then."

That made Eli laugh. "You might, perhaps, if you start practicing now."

Reluctantly, Ziva moved to pick up the small knife which had fallen five feet short of the target. She brushed the dirt off of it and returned to Eli's side. Turning towards the target with her tongue sticking out in concentration, she took aim and then swung her arm.

The knife flew through the air in a graceful arc, its blade glinting in the sunlight; but then it crashed to the concrete floor in a decidedly ungraceful manner and quivered there for a moment before becoming still. Ziva let out a frustrated howl.

Eli clucked his tongue. "Ziva, remember that this is only your first day. You will get better."

Ziva pursed her lips, and then defiantly marched to the knife and picked it up again. She swung her arm wildly and threw the knife, causing a head of brown hair in front of her to shriek suddenly and jerk sideways as the knife whizzed past its ear.

Eli paled visibly while Ziva ran to its owner in horror. "Ari!" She cried, her hands at her mouth, "I am so sorry! Oh, did I hurt you?"

Ari got up from the sitting position into which he had fallen, shaking very slightly. "No, you did not." He gulped, and then feigning indifference, took up the knife and flicked his wrist. It zoomed neatly through the air and landed right on target. Ziva scowled at his back as he walked up to their father. "_Abba_, I have come for the shooting lessons that you promised me."

"Ah, of course." Eli nodded. "I had not forgotten. Ziva, I think we are done for today. Come and give your father a kiss, and then you can go out and play with your friends." He beckoned to his little daughter and bent down. Ziva obediently ran forwards and stood on tiptoes to kiss her father's rough cheek; and then she left.

She did not go to play, however, but went back to her bedroom to pace back and forth instead. Ari's ease with knife-throwing irked her competitive nature so much that she urgently felt the need to catch up with him, and she knew that her daily practice sessions with her father would not be enough for her to do that.

She flopped down onto her bed tiredly. She frowned at the ceiling once and then sat up abruptly, crossing her legs and placing her hands on her knees. In this manner, she sat perfectly still for five minutes, racking her brain for ways to rapidly improve her knife-throwing skills. And that was how the mother of all great ideas was born.

Having had her epiphany, Ziva scrambled down from her bed and rummaged through her delightfully messy art and craft box. She eventually found what she wanted and went back to sit on her bed, propping up her pillow at the foot of the bed and then leaning back against the headboard excitedly. Then she aimed carefully at the pillow.

The scissors flew through the air just as gracefully as the knife had, but it bounced off the pillow and landed with a plop on the bed. Ziva growled and grabbed the scissors. She tried again.

This time the scissors sliced into the pillow and stuck there, trembling gently. Ziva squealed and clapped her hands before realizing that she had to be quiet, because she would very likely get into trouble for using her pillow for target practice. Softly, she slipped down from her bed and lodged her chair under the doorknob.

Then she climbed up onto her bed again and continued her practice. Very soon her aim became better and her hits became more frequent, and she had to keep moving her pillow further back in order to increase the distance that she had to cover.

By the time she was called down to dinner, the pillow was bedecked with perforations and the floor was covered with small balls of cotton. She carefully placed back her pillow on the bed with the side not covered in holes facing upwards, and then went to get her dinner.

After dinner it was bedtime, and Ziva crawled into bed to wait for her mother to come and tuck her in. Her mother entered the room and froze in mid-step when she saw the cotton-littered floor. "Ziva, what is this on the floor?" She looked up at her daughter in shock.

"It is nothing, _ima_," Ziva replied, suddenly scared of her mother. Why had she not thought to sweep up all the cotton before dinner?

"Nothing!" Her mother bent down to inspect the fluffy balls. "That is cotton, is it not? What have you been doing in here?"

"Art and craft, _ima_! I will clean it up, I promise!" She drew the covers around her nervously.

Her mother eyed her intently for a while. "And where did you get the cotton for art and craft?"

"I…" Ziva faltered. She could not think of a plausible lie.

Her mother groaned in exasperation. Walking to the doorway, she called out, "Eli!"

Eli materialized so quickly that both Ziva and her mother jumped. He asked, "What is it?"

His wife pointed at the bedroom floor. "Did you give Ziva the cotton for her art and craft? She has left it all over the floor."

Eli paused and looked with some confusion at the floor, and then at Ziva's frightened face. Finally his eyes fell on the pair of scissors lying in a corner of her desk with what looked suspiciously like white cotton strands caught in it, and he connected the dots in an instance. His eyes twinkled as he said to his wife, "Leave this to me. I will make sure she cleans it up."

Ziva's mother nodded, wished Ziva goodnight and then left the room. Eli sat down on the edge of his daughter's bed. "Ziva," he said firmly, "May I know what you have been doing with all this cotton?"

Ziva chewed on her lip. Then she shook her head solemnly. "I cannot tell you, _abba_."

"Have you been target practising, perhaps?"

Ziva's eyes widened at his perceptiveness. "I am sorry, _abba_! I promise I will clean it up."

Eli nodded. "Yes, you must. Tomorrow. Now you must sleep first." He leant forward and straightened her covers. "But can I ask why you have been target practising in your room?"

"I wanted to improve quickly. I want to be better than Ari," Ziva answered her father gravely.

"Oh? And how did you do?"

Ziva shrugged. "I can say that my pillow is full of holes now."

Eli laughed. "I will get you a new pillow tomorrow. But you must promise me never to use your pillows for target practice again, or else your _ima _will get angry and come after me."

It was now Ziva's turn to laugh. Her laugh was a child's bubbly giggle, which came from having her worries assuaged and her carefreeness restored. "I promise, _abba_."

"Good. Tomorrow, you must clean up this mess that you have made, and then I shall ask Ari to practise his knife-throwing with you so that you can learn from him." Eli kissed Ziva's forehead. "_Laila tov, nesicha._"

He left the room and pulled the door shut behind him while Ziva sighed contentedly and snuggled down into her dreams. She was sure that tomorrow was going to be a good day.

It was a good day after all, for the afternoon saw Ari teaching his little sister how to throw knives.

He lounged lazily on the floor at first while Ziva stood beside him, concentrating intensely on the target and lifting her arm to throw the knife. It hit the target but failed to stick, sliding down and dropping onto the floor instead, and leaving a long gash in its wake.

"Oh!" Ziva cried in surprise and disappointment. She said rather sadly, "But I made it stick with the scissors!"

Ari looked at his crazy little sister in wonderment before standing up and brushing himself off. "Scissors are different from knives, Ziva. Even the knives are different from each other. That is why you have to get to know your knife intimately."

Ziva looked at her elder brother. "But why are they different from each other?"

Ari thought for a moment. "Well, each knife has its own shape and weight, and its own strengths and imperfections. When you throw them, they will all fly in their own way and hit the target in their own way. So, like the scissors, you just need practice to throw your knife well."

"Oh." Ziva nodded and studied her knife.

"What you need to do," continued Ari, taking the knife from her, "Is find the balancing point of your knife. Hold out your finger." Ziva obeyed and held out her right index finger. Ari placed the knife there, where it wobbled for a second and then stayed still. "There. That is your knife's balancing point."

"Wow…" Ziva said in awe, looking wide-eyed at the perfectly balanced knife on her finger.

"And that is where you hold the knife when you want to throw it. Go ahead and try it."

Ziva held the knife carefully at its balancing point and then threw it. It twisted and turned in the air before sinking itself beautifully right in the middle of the target. Ziva screamed with joy and jumped up and down, her five-year-old dignity momentarily forgotten.

It was the first time that she had successfully thrown a knife.


End file.
